


wonderstruck

by leighbot



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Drinking, M/M, Magic, Meet-Cute, Post Hogwarts AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:46:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7892953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leighbot/pseuds/leighbot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It’s nice to meet you,” Harry says, because his mum always taught him to be polite. </i>
</p><p><i>“Your eyelashes are obscene,” he then says, because she could never teach him to hold his tongue.</i><br/> </p><p>Or, Harry is a wizard who meets a lad at a Muggle bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wonderstruck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stuckinabottle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckinabottle/gifts).



> stuckinabottle, thank you so much for your prompts! This was was a bit open, so I spun it a little. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Random bit of 'Santa is a wizard' near the end - a spur of the moment decision not supported in canon.
> 
> Special thanks go to Jenny, who is always the real MVP of my life. And a nod to Mother Nature, who blessed me when I needed her most. Title and lyric in the body of the story from Taylor Swift.

  


 

It’s Sunday morning. There shouldn’t be a letter in the post. But there is.

Harry eyes the red envelope in the foyer warily as he unlocks his front door and steps over the threshold. He knows what it is, had received enough of them whilst at school and plenty after, he just doesn’t know why it’s here. He can’t remember causing any recent offence. He carries the envelope to the kitchen, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger while holding it at an arm’s length. He tries to calculate if he has enough time to choke down some paracetamol. It’s warm to the touch, so he knows his time is running out, but he really could use something in his system as quickly as possible. And possibly a shower.

The decision is made for him, however, when the envelope begins smoking and shifting on its own on the marble counter, the seal of it popping at the same time it flips onto its front. Immediately, a booming voice fills the kitchen as the flap moves akin to how a mouth would.

“STYLES, YOU BETTER BE DEAD IF YOU’VE BEEN IGNORING MY OWLS. I SWEAR TO MERLIN, IF YOU DO NOT COME OUT WITH US THIS WEEKEND, I WILL SEND YOU ONE OF THESE EVERY SINGLE DAY FOR A MONTH. WE MISS YOUR FACE.” After the briefest pause, the flap looks like it relaxes, a calmer voice continuing with, “Also, Liam wants to go to a Muggle bar. He finds them fascinating. Hope you have a recommendation. Ta.”

“Yeah, cheers,” Harry tells the envelope as it bursts into flames, a small pile of ash left behind in the blink of an eye. A finger to his temple, his other hand uses his wand to sweep up the embers and direct them into the trash, a scorch mark somehow left behind on his marble worktop. He watches as it magically recedes, Louis’ words still rolling around his head.

Literally, because his headache is about twenty times worse than it had just been.

A bottle of paracetamol is conveniently stored in the cabinet above the sink, and Harry shakes out two into his palm as he has a glass fill itself with ice water. He swallows them down and chugs the water, letting the ice settle at the bottom of the glass as he pulls out a pen and scrap of parchment. The scratch of the ballpoint against the material makes his eye twitch, but he scribbles the words out quickly.

 _Bit dramatic._ N _ext time, try to have worse timing. Thought I had a headache for the history books before your post. Now realize that was mild to what is currently happening. Feels like your Howler is dancing around my head, the pointy bits of the envelope jabbing at every pain receptor in my brain._

Stopping himself before he rambles further, hating the sounds he’s making, he finishes quickly.

_Send me a normal notice back with the time. I know a place._

Bracing himself against the oncoming pain, he whistles for Tara, his Eagle Owl. He barely hears the _whoosh_ of her wings as she comes flying in through the front room window enchanted for owl use only. A strong weather repelling charm is cast over the open top half thanks to Liam, and it keeps the cold and rain out while giving Tara, his barn owls Rylan and Rhett, and any other Post Owl access to make their delivers. She soars into the kitchen, landing on the back of a bar stool at his island worktop, leveling him an unimpressed glance before hooting softly and sticking out her leg.

“See if you can get him to respond right away,” Harry says, tying the note to her carefully. He then makes her wait until he can retrieve a nibble from his pack of Eeylops Premium Owl Treats, tossing one in the air. Tara leans forward quickly, wings raised behind her back as she pushes off towards the treat. She catches it expertly in her beak before taking off, her flight nearly silent. All doorways in Harry’s house are wide enough to accommodate her wingspan, and she’s soon out of view as she leaves through the same charmed window.

Grinning mischievously, Harry starts whistling as he makes a quick breakfast. Louis hates Tara the most out of all of Harry’s owls, as she has always quite enjoyed pecking and harassing him, dating back to their school days. It dulls some of the pain in Harry’s head, knowing that Louis will regret sending him a Howler.

 

 

An hour later, Tara sweeps through the house and into Harry’s upstairs office. She holds out her leg, a thin roll of parchment tied to it with string. Harry doesn’t even attempt to untie the knot, knowing Louis will have it in an unworkable state. He grabs his wand and slices it carefully, Tara holding still from experience. She hesitates once the letter is delivered.

“I don’t have any treats in here,” Harry apologises. “But there’s a bowl of them in the kitchen still. Help yourself.”

She pecks at his proffered hand affectionately before flying away. Harry unrolls the scroll.

_I hate you and your damn owl. She’s literally pecking my elbow as I write this, and she smacked me with her wings. Fair play for sending the Howler, last time I do that. Honestly wouldn’t have if I’d known about your headache. Try Cephalargia Obstructus._

_Tomorrow night. Floo over and we’ll go together. Don’t send Tara again._

Harry laughs, doubting that he’s received his last Howler. Louis loves to send them, especially early in the morning. Harry knows that he’ll send his future children Howlers at school, not even to scold them but just to loudly remind them of his love. He sets the scroll to the side and picks up his wand, rolling up the sleeve of his jumper.

“ _Cephalargia_ _Obstructus_ ,” he says, bringing the tip of his wand to his left temple, where the pain is at its worst. He doesn’t experience instant relief, but a soothing scent of peppermint follows his words, and warmth spreads from his wand into his skin. He sets his wand back down and turns back to his computer as he waits for the spell to take full effect. An article for his column is due by the beginning of the next week, the draft of which he needs to bring into his editor’s office tomorrow. He has four full words currently written, completely uninspired.

Working for a Muggle publication had never been a serious consideration while he was in school. _The Daily Prophet_ hadn’t been hiring when he’d left Hogwarts and _Witch Weekly_ had only offered him a freelancing positioning that wouldn’t have covered his bills. Wiring the house for electricity had been a hassle and the circuit goes black sometimes after random spells, but it’s necessary for him to be on the Muggle grid to communicate with work.

For just over two years, Harry has written a column for a music criticism magazine, _London Upbeat_. He’s usually featured in their online-only edition, but he takes on freelance print-edition pieces from time to time. His editor is called Joyce and she is a self-admitted hovering pain in the arse, though she always approaches their work from a position of an encouraging mentor as opposed to a dictating perfectionist. There’s a desk with his name plaque on it in the central London offices, but Harry’s rarely there as he works mostly from home with Joyce’s approval. The pay is comfortable enough, especially as his travel-related expenses are so low. Joyce even lets Harry choose the bands he features for half of his pieces as long as he covers her picks for the other half. It works out well for him, overall.

Works out usually well, he thinks, as he stares at the blinking cursor on his screen. He’s never found himself with nothing to say, can typically let words flow in articles easier than he can while speaking. His reviews even often call for several read-throughs to remove any rambling nonsense. Today’s piece, however, doesn’t seem to be the same.

Harry sighs. Knowing that succumbing to writer’s block is never going to be the correct answer, he places his fingers to his keyboard and forces out all of his thoughts on the band he saw last night, even if its just stream-of-conscious nonsense that can never be truly published.

One hour later, he finds himself deep in the recesses of his social media, liking and commenting on pictures of a mate’s new puppy instead of accomplishing any writing.

He stops himself, clicking back to his open document and frowning when he realizes there’s only about a hundred words on the screen, none of which he’d put his name to in an actual publication. He finally admits defeat.

The band had been his choice, an indie quartet from Leeds who claimed they drew their main style inspiration from the likes of Bob Marley and The Clash. The music had been amazing, completely unique in form, and had worked even though it seemed unlikely. Harry heard of them through the grapevine, and had pitched the idea to Joyce. She had been interested and given it the green light immediately. Harry normally loves writing about obscure bands, loves introducing readers to people they may not have heard of otherwise. It’s one of the reasons he’s in this business to begin with.

But he doesn’t usually sleep with the people he writes about.

The lead vocalist had been gorgeous and interested, and they’d shared a few drinks before they had gotten off in the toilet of the venue they were in. They then went back to her house for a shag. Everything had been great, the chemistry burned bright and fierce for the time needed and she’d invited him to sleep over instead of heading home in the middle of the night.

In the morning, they’d both been nursing hangovers and the sexual tension had clearly disappeared. Harry had accepted the toast she’d offered him before he left, brushing crumbs from his hands before turning around the corner of her house and Apparating into his own garage.

As far as hookups go, it was pretty standard, Harry feels. She had been beautiful, flirty and down for fun. He doesn’t have a rule about not having sex with people for work, but he also doesn’t feel comfortable writing a review on her band while the smell of her perfume still clings to his hair.

Harry pushes back from his computer, getting to his feet and taking a few turns around his office distractedly. He knows what he needs to do, as he’s practically out of time for anything else, but he hates it. On his hard drive, he has a couple of articles saved for situations like these. He’s never yet had to use what he calls a ‘fluff piece’ to make a deadline, as he is often overflowing with inspiration. He prides himself on his work. But he decides that he needs to write about this particular band at another time, when he’s a couple days away from the aftermath and doesn’t feel like there will be any unconscious blending of the girl he’d gotten off with and the girl whose band he’d been paid to review.

Having made a choice, Harry settles in his chair again, tucking his left foot under his bum as he shifts a bit until he’s comfortable. He pulls up his saved files, navigating his drafts and concepts folders until he finds his emergency supply. Three pieces sit, waiting for him to select one and finally use it. He makes his pick at random, smiling when he opens it to reveal the particular topic it covers.

Being a wizard that mostly lives in Muggle society, Harry enjoys seeing how his two worlds sometimes collide. When spells go awry and the Ministry gets involved to control the situation, the Muggle news usually reports the incident as ‘far-fetched’ or even as a ‘conspiracy’ about any Muggles who come forward with their partially-retained memories. It’s a tricky business, keeping the worlds apart, and he sometimes likes to have a little fun.

The piece he reads over is on Myron Wagtail, the aging lead vocalist for the Weird Sisters. Myron is to the wizarding world what Mick Jagger is to Muggles, and Harry’s done a review on him before as part of the band when the Weird Sisters had accidentally had a song crossover to the Muggle charts, peaking at number four. It had been one of his highest hit counts last year, and he feels himself relax as he works through the entire review, adjusting some awkward language and including references to a recent solo gig that Harry had attended as an observer, not as a critic.

He sends the email out to Joyce, explaining briefly that the original band he had planned on covering wouldn’t have a piece ready in time. He doesn’t anticipate any fuss for the decision, but nonetheless he resolves to at least replenish his fluff count, if not have a new review ready in case this one is rejected. He knows a club he sometimes frequents that has live music on Friday nights. He’ll take Louis and Liam there tomorrow and have a lad’s night while jotting down enough notes to force out an article if necessary. Two birds, one stone and all.

Almost as soon as he’s hit send to submit the email, his outbox clearing automatically, the computer goes dark and the sound of the central air cuts off, whirling to a stop slowly. Harry sighs. He presses his palms to the edge of his desk, his chair rolling back enough for him to stand. Making his way down the stairs and into the living room, he already knows what he’ll find.

“Haz, you around?” he hears just as he turns the corner, stepping around the sofa and grinning down at Liam’s head in his fireplace. “Oh, thank god,” Liam says, “I was getting dizzy looking around for you.”

“What’s up, Li? Lou just sent an owl earlier.”

“Oh, yeah, I know. I had a question to ask you, though.”

“Are you finally gonna propose?” Harry asks, crouching down to get closer to Liam’s level.

Liam coughs, as if he’s impossibly swallowed some ash. His head disappears for a second and the flames turn yellow before they once again flicker green and he comes back.

“Oh my god, you are,” Harry says. He can hear how slow his words are, and he actually overbalances and lands on his bottom, kind of surprised.

“I- yeah, I think so. We’ve been talking about it, anyway,” Liam says, the sheepish expression on his face only emphasized further by the jade fire licking harmlessly at his skin.

“Hope you’re not gonna ask me about rings, Lou and I have completely different tastes.”

“I mean, I’d love your opinion, too, but I was going to ask if you thought asking over the Christmas hols would be too-“

“Cliché?” Harry supplies when Liam pauses.

“Yeah. We’re going to his mum’s for his birthday, and I thought I might wrap the ring in one of his Christmas morning gifts.”

Harry pretends to think about it for a moment, keeping his expression serious. Liam will reject Harry’s answer if it comes too soon, will think Harry’s just pandering. He doesn’t need the time, though. He knows Louis better than anyone- even better than Liam possibly- having grown up near him in Muggle households before receiving their Hogwarts letters two years apart.

Harry was the first person Louis had told when he’d received his letter, thinking it was a joke at first. Harry had believed it instantly, and had helped Louis tell his mum. When his best friend had left for school, Harry had been bitterly jealous and had missed him terribly. So it was a shock to him when his own letter had come on his eleventh birthday, a letter his mum still has framed in her front room.

Harry sighs, relaxing further and crossing his legs. He looks directly in Liam’s eyes. “You and Lou have been together for six years, Li. You know how much he loves sharing everything with his family. I think Louis would be thrilled with that plan. In fact, he might hate anything else. Especially if he finds out this was an option that you or I shot down.”

Liam smiles at that: a true, blinding white smile with all of his front teeth on display. Immediately, he looks like the nervous boy on his first day at Hogwarts, being sorted three people in front of Harry into Gryffindor almost before the Sorting Hat had touched a hair on his head.

 “Thanks, mate,” Liam says. “I’ll show you the rings when you come over tomorrow, yeah? I have Muggle phots of them. Doesn’t quite capture the shine, but couldn’t get a wizard camera quickly enough.”

“I’m sure they’ll look fine,” Harry assures him, waving goodbye when Liam pulls back into his own home.

Harry idles in front of the orange flames for a bit, dragging his pointer finger through the rogue cinders as he mulls over the conversation. Liam and Louis had been an unlikely pairing from the start, rivals on the Quidditch pitch as well as in classes. One day in sixth year, though, Harry had burst into Louis’ dormitory to tell him about his first kiss with Jordyn Parkinson only to find him and Liam snogging in Louis’ bed.

After recovering from that shock, Harry had scolded Louis for bringing a Gryffindor into the Dungeon. Louis had laughed and informed Harry that everyone had been breaking that rule for a while. And Liam had been an integral part of their group from that day forward.

Once again, he finds himself quite terribly jealous of Louis just as he had been after Louis had gone to Hogwarts without him. Though he’s never been close to settling down with anyone he’s been with- avoiding exclusive, monogamous relationships as a rule- he still knows he wants to get married one day. He’s always known he wants a family and a Someone to come home to. When asked by his mum about his plans to follow through on those thoughts, Harry always just grins cheekily and promises to make her a grandmother ‘when the time is right’.

Never has he really considered his own actions as being the reason the time hasn’t ever been ‘right’.  Putting emphasis on casual hookups and friends with benefits has probably been the cause for his delay. He doesn’t really mind his current lifestyle- certainly hasn’t met anyone yet who wants to keep him around, either- but he’d like to have a Someone that will Floo his best friend to ask about making the perfect proposal.

Harry sighs, rising up and grunting at the twinge in his back as he gets to his feet. He looks around the room, noting his digital clock is back to power. The Floo Network always blacks out his grid, and no amount of consultation with the Ministry has changed it. It’s hardly a major inconvenience, as Harry often forgets to fully use his electricity after seven years spent mostly absorbed in the wizard world. Summers and hols home had always been strange for the first couple of days, like learning a language from the beginning.

Harry brushes ash from his trousers, heading into his kitchen for a cup of tea and one of the biscuits he keeps stocked for his cheat days. He lost count a few cheat days ago as to how many he’s had in a row, but he grins to himself as he eats the last one and licks the crumbs from the tip of his thumb. He makes a conscious decision to focus on one simple fact to help him overcome his jealousy: he now, officially, knows something big that Louis doesn’t know. He wonders how many times he can hint at it without giving the game up.

Louis hates being kept in the dark.

 

 

Despite most people’s opinion that travelling by Floo is uncomfortable or even nauseating, Harry prefers it over any other method. Broomsticks too quickly turn unpleasant and are often cold, Portkeys feel like a fishhook is tugging at your very core, and Apparition carries with it the terrifying thought that- if performed poorly- parts of you may end up at completely different locations.

Harry had honestly considered a career as a Healer until he’d learned about Splinching. He soon realised he wasn’t cut out for that kind of responsibility. Writing music reviews has yet to bring him face to face with missing body parts.

Floo is quick and, with an added benefit, allows his house in Muggle London to be kept on the magical grid, so that spells at his residence don’t trigger immediate investigation by the Ministry. It also is just kind of fun, in a sense, when the warm flames tickle at his skin. His Powder is kept in a glass bowl on his mantle. He pinches a bit of the silver sparkling powder between his thumb and first finger, tosses into the fire and calls out Louis and Liam’s address as he steps into the green flames.

“Anyone home?” he calls out as he steps over their threshold, their living room in more of a tip than usual. He has half a thought to be concerned as his eyes trace over an upturned armchair, but then Louis comes into view, casually biting into a sandwich.

“Thought you were dead,” Harry says drily.

“Why?” Louis asks around his mouthful, taking another bite before fully swallowing the first. Harry waves his arm, indicating the mess. Louis scoffs, before chewing and swallowing. “Please. Liam would be the one who died.”

Harry snorts at the dry way Louis says it, his earlier jealousy replaced with fondness for his best mates.

“Why have I died?” Liam asks as he comes around the doorframe, having clearly caught only the end of the exchange.

“Domestic dispute. Terrible tragedy. Too young to be tied to someone so crazed.”

Liam frowns, uncomprehending until he looks around at the state the room is in. “Oh, Lou is doing an experiment for work.”

“What’s it about?” Harry asks, interest piqued.

“If I could tell you that, I wouldn’t be an Unspeakable, would I?” Louis challenges.

Harry snorts. He still sometimes doesn’t really believe that’s Louis’ job, just because of how much Louis has always gossiped about every other area of his life, but he’s also learned to hold his tongue about it. His burning curiosity will never be sated, and he never wants to trigger a Ministry investigation because of his questions. He instead flicks a stray fleck of soot from his denim trousers as Liam waves his wand and the room sets itself to rights.

Harry isn’t looking at them but he can hear the low murmur of Louis’ voice as he thanks Liam before Harry next hears the sound of Louis smacking a kiss to Liam’s cheek. “You two almost ready?” Harry asks, smiling indulgently when he looks up to see the blush high on Liam’s face.

“We’re ready,” Louis confirms.

“Oh, I’m not yet,” Liam says, looking down at his clothes. He looks fine in Harry’s opinion, but then Liam shoots Harry a glance when Louis turns to wash up at the sink, and Harry clues in.

“Yeah,” Harry stammers, casting about wildly for an excuse for why he’s about to follow Liam into his bedroom. Thankfully for them, Louis is paying little attention, and Harry doesn’t finish his sentence before walking away.

“I’ve got the photographs here,” Liam says, pulling out his work briefcase and snapping it open.

“Bad hiding spot,” Harry remarks. “Louis probably goes through your bag every night. Looking for things to prank you with.”

Liam frowns, pausing his actions as he looks around the room, possibly for another spot. There’s no denying the truth to what Harry’s said. He’s almost a bit surprised Liam didn’t already realize that. Harry sighs and twirls his wrist, motioning for Liam to hurry up, as Louis’ curiosity about their whereabouts will start to pique soon.

Snapping back into action, Liam finishes opening his case and pulls them out of an inner pocket. “He doesn’t really wear rings, so I’m not confident in his taste,” Liam says, apologetically as he passes the pictures over.

Harry holds them side-by-side, glancing back and forth before placing one on top of the other and handing them back. “They’re both great,” he assures Liam, “but this one is better.” He taps the top one, a dark titanium ring with a row of small stones in the middle on the otherwise plain band.

“I like that one, too,” Liam admits. “I bought it, actually.”

Harry smiles, smacking Liam on the back of his shoulder. “What if I would have said the other one?”

“I’d be buying two, then.”

Harry snorts before leaving the room so Liam can find another hiding spot for his pictures. He heads off to find Louis, unsurprised when he ends up being in the large pantry, rifling around for snacks.

“You just ate.”

“I’m feeling a bit peckish,” Louis admits. “There’s something going on at work and I end up not eating all day until I get home, and then I just stuff my face for hours. I barely fit in my trousers anymore.”

“Your leggings don’t stretch that far?” Harry teases, cackling when Louis looks over at him and makes an outraged face.

“They’re proper trousers, they are!”

“Whatever you say,” Harry says, scurrying away when Louis lunge for him in jest.

Liam comes into the kitchen before they’re done chasing each other around, smiling indulgently at them when they finally stop and look over at him.

“There you are. We’ve been waiting,” is all Louis says, clearly feigning ignorance at the unbecoming display Liam had just seen. Liam laughs, getting an arm around Louis’ shoulders and pulling him close.

“We can take the tube over,” Harry offers, watching as Liam kisses Louis’ temple. “I found a club off the Central Line.”

Liam, who loves taking the Underground, lights up. “That’s the red one, yeah?” he asks, grin widening when Harry nods. Liam has made it his mission to learn all the lines and colors that they coordinate with, and so far he’s right about fifty percent of the time. More than Harry can really say about himself or the countless tourists he sees travelling every day, constantly checking and double checking their phones or maps for the right station names.

Louis slips out from under Liam’s arm, leading them to the fireplace. “We can Floo to the station,” he says. “The Ministry recently reached a deal with the Muggle government. Allows wizards to Apparate or Floo into out-of-order loos at several locations. Saves us from trying to find safe spaces around each one and usually is near-enough to busier, interchange stations.”

“That’s brilliant, actually. Did you have anything to do with it?” Harry asks, stepping up behind Liam as he grabs the Powder they’ll need for the journey.

“I wouldn’t be speaking about it if I had,” Louis answers with a roll of his eyes.

Harry laughs, wrapping an arm around Louis’ shoulders in a mirror of how Liam and he had just been standing. He pulls Louis along into the flames as Liam happily yells out the station name.

 

 

After riding the Tube for fifteen minutes, Liam has even more of the map memorized. He keeps repeating the names and colors, committing them in his mind. Harry uses the subway often enough, but he only knows the stations near his most frequent destinations. He admires Liam’s dedication to the task.

For all that he’s Muggle born just like Harry, Louis has little patience for what he often refers to as ‘Muggle Nonsense’. Harry used to get faux offended by the perceived attitude, feeling like he needed to stand up for their childhood, but then he realized Louis has the same lack of patience for wizarding ignorance and shortfalls. It’s obviously just his superiority complex coming to light, and Harry’s learned to build up a tolerance.

Liam, on the other hand, still apparently thinks he can convince Louis to soften on some of his views. Harry knows it’s useless. He bites his bottom lip as he watches Liam lecture Louis about the benefits of the Tube over Apparating, knowing Liam will learn to follow his lead sooner rather than later.

The conversation gets some side-eye glances from the Muggles around them, but Harry’s heard stranger things being said on public transport, so he just indulgences them in their bickering before ushering them off at their stop and leading the way up to street level, navigating the familiar steps to a music club he frequents.

There’s a queue outside of the venue. Harry glances over at Louis. “You wanna take care of this?”

Grinning, always a little pleased to show off, Louis waves his hand in a subtle gesture near his thigh. When they step up to the front of the line, the bouncer checks off their names quickly and lets them inside.

“Still don’t know how you perform wandless magic so well,” Harry mutters. “Your grades were shit in school.”

“I just don’t test well,” Louis answers, prim.

“Meaning you don’t respect traditional education and probably hardly tried just to prove a point,” Harry says back, smiling enough to dimple as he checks their coats in.

He pockets the ticket carefully, tapping his wand where it’s stored against his thigh in a hidden pocket. It’s safer there than in the back pocket of his trousers, though Muggles usually don’t recognize them even when they’re waved in front of their faces. Something to do with Disillusionment Charms, he thinks. It’s always a good idea to keep them out of sight for the extra peace of caution, in any regard. Brushing his fingers over the familiar bump is a habit of his, though he’s usually able to make it look like he’s just wiping sweat from his palms if he finds someone giving him an odd look over it.

Harry is surprised Louis hasn’t shot anything back until he looks over and sees the frown on his face. “You alright?” Harry asks, following the line of Louis’ eye to a large, multicolored poster. “Oh.”

“You brought us here for work?” Louis asks.

Harry had known that the club has live performances on Friday nights before a DJ takes over, and he had definitely considered replacing his spent fluff piece with another from tonight’s show, but he doesn’t want Louis to be upset.

“Not exactly,” he answers honestly. When Louis’ shoulders stiffen with tension, Harry rushes to explain, forcing his words out as quickly as he can. “I had to use a piece I’d been saving for an emergency bout with writer’s block,” he says. “It did the trick, but I just thought I could write another simple piece on tonight’s music, but I’m not looking to interview them or anything. Mere casual observer just here to pad my fluff folder in case I need it in the future.”

Louis isn’t frowning any further, but his shoulders are still tight.

Harry grins at him until he starts to smile back. “Lad’s night. I’m here to hang out with my best mate,” he assures. “And you,” he directs to Louis, giggling when it does the trick and lifts the mood.

“Oi, you barely tolerate Liam.”

Liam pulls an exaggerated frowny face and they all fall in line again as they head out of the coat check and into the main space, a band already setting up on stage and about to go on. Louis waves him to an empty booth.

“Go grab a seat and we’ll get the first round. Don’t want you to miss anything you can put in your story.”

“It’s a review,” Harry corrects automatically, widening his eyes when Louis gives him an unimpressed look. He resembles Tara in a scary way, especially when their mutual dislike of the other is taken into consideration. Harry decides to bolt, scampering to the booth and nearly tripping over his own feet just before reaching his destination.

“Whoa, careful mate,” he hears, a strong arm pressing to his chest and keeping him upright.

“Thanks,” Harry says to the faceless voice before lifting his gaze and meeting big, dark eyes in the dim lighting of the club. The only words that come to mind immediately are ‘ _doe, a deer_ ’, and he swallows hard as the guy blinks once, lashes fanning out against his cheeks briefly before he looks up at Harry again. The guy smiles, slightly awkwardly, and Harry glances down to realise the guy’s arm is now off of Harry’s chest but Harry’s hand is still gripping his elbow where he’d grabbed on during his near-fall in a reflex. “Sorry,” he says, letting go and stepping back slightly. He shakes his hand out, feeling a tingle in his palm from how tight he’d been holding.

“S’alright.”

“I’m Harry,” he says, offering his same hand to shake.

“Zayn,” he answers, looking down at Harry’s hand with a smile. There’s a brief second that passes before Zayn reaches his own hand out, just long enough for Harry to consider retracting, but then Zayn’s sliding their palms together.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Harry says, because his mum always taught him to be polite.

“Your eyelashes are obscene,” he then says, because she could never teach him to hold his tongue.

Zayn looks startled for a moment before their hands separate, his mouth twitching at the corners before his eyes nearly shut and he turns his head away to laugh loudly. Harry watches his throat as he moves, the curve of it offset by the sharp line of his jaw under his thick scruff of a beard, and Harry decides right then and there that Zayn is the most beautiful person he’s seen in real life.

“I’ve never heard that line before,” Zayn says once he’s stopped laughing, his eyes still crinkled from his smile, tongue pressing against the back of his front top teeth.

“Wasn’t a line,” Harry says, before correcting himself. “Was a line, maybe, but it wasn’t said intentionally. I should have- be quiet.” He barely stops himself from rambling.

“It was good, either way.”

Harry stands there for a beat too long, looking at Zayn and wondering what he can say next to make him laugh like he had again. In the time it takes him to think without coming to a decision, the band’s singer taps a test beat on the microphone, and Zayn’s attention is pulled away.

“I’ve got to go,” Zayn says, though he seems reluctant when he looks back to Harry. “My mate’s performing and I promised I’d be front and center.”

“Okay. I- bye, then.” Harry kicks himself for not saying anything else before Zayn walks away, though he follows him with his eyes and smiles when Zayn glances back quickly. Zayn smiles and shakes his head a bit, turning to the front again and slipping into the crowd that’s starting to form as the club gets fuller with the later hour.

When Harry pivots to finish heading over to the booth he’d been walking towards, he finds Louis and Liam already occupying it, identical smirks on their faces. Harry tries to control his blush but can’t, swiping his hair behind his ear as he slips in next to Liam.

“Pulled already, Charmer?” Louis teases.

Harry doesn’t answer, just takes the drink offered to him with a nod of thanks and downs half of it in one go. The mint of the mojito is refreshing, but he’s going to need something stronger than rum to calm the spike of adrenaline he feels.

Louis and Liam thankfully leave him alone for a moment while he types a note on his mobile phone of the band’s name as they introduce themselves. They launch into their first song and Harry tries to jot down a few specificities, hates phoning it in even if it’s destined for an emergency piece only, but part of him can’t help but scan the band members and wonder which is Zayn’s mate, and if that’s all they are. He glances across the crowd, looking for a set of insanely broad shoulders stretching a worn leather jacket, but he can’t see the front from his vantage point.

A lyrics gets stuck in his head, something pop-y on the radio though he can’t place the name. _‘Please don’t be in love with someone else.’_ He barely resists laughing at his own melodramatic thoughts.

“What’s your boy’s name, Haz?” Liam asks after the first song transitions into the second, Harry typing out ‘good changeover’ before looking up.

“He’s called Zayn, but I don’t know if it’s fair to call him my boy.”

“Yet,” Louis teases, reaching across the table to pinch at a stray curl that’s fallen forward again.

Harry bats his hand away gently, tucking the piece behind his ear.

“So much for lad’s night.”

“To be fair, Zayn’s a lad,” Liam says, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“You don’t get to decide who is and isn’t a lad, Liam. You’re not even one yourself!” Louis challenges, though there’s more affection in his tone than not.

“I’ve been called worse, to be honest,” Harry hears. He looks up to see Zayn standing at the edge of the table, a somewhat crooked smile on his face and his lashes as devastating as they had been not ten minutes earlier.

Forgetting for a moment that he’s in a booth, Harry makes to stand, thighs jostling to the table hard enough that their drinks would have spilled if not for the reflexes of the other three.

“Hi, Zayn,” Harry says, belatedly grabbing for a glass before finding them all secured. He scoots over first this time before standing carefully. “We were just- we weren’t talking about you, like, we were just, um.” He’s never stammered this badly before, or spoken this slowly, but he’s rattled.

“Can’t be too bad, we’ve only just met.”

Harry laughs, a loud braying sound like a donkey would make, and claps his hand over his mouth. He thinks he hears Louis mutter an ‘oh, boy’ and he flushes hot. Seizing onto a distraction, he turns at the waist. “Zayn, this is Louis and Liam, my friends. Sometimes.”

Zayn smiles and waves, a subtle flick of his fingers before he turns back to Harry. “I’ve got a good spot up front, if you want to come with.”

Not fully registering the words, Harry just blinks at him twice before nodding like a fool. “Yeah,” he says, finding his voice. “Yeah, let’s go. Sounds- perfect.”

Somehow, all his behavioral quirks seem to lead to smiles from Zayn instead of the possibly more-likely rejection, and he watches Zayn’s tongue flick out against his bottom lip before he turns and leads Harry through the press of people. Harry follows the broad set of his shoulders under the thick leather of his bike jacket, the hem open around a narrow waist. Zayn’s trousers are almost as tight as Louis’, Harry realises, though his waist is much smaller and his bum is almost non-existent. Zayn turns and catches Harry looking at his arse. He laughs when Harry smiles cheekily, the sound lost to the music.

It’s louder near the stage, of course, and Harry takes advantage of the fact that he’s not expected to speak. He’s always a bit silly when on the pull, finding it often leads to a warm reception, but he’s finding his responses to Zayn aren’t exactly normal. He’s a bit tongue-tied, in all honesty. Instead of speaking, he moves a bit with the beat, not quite fully dancing. Next to him, Zayn is nodding along in a similar fashion.

The music is good, the band labelling themselves as a rock band, though Harry thinks their lyrics are enough to designate a pop label with it. There’s definitely emphasis on the instrumentation, though, with the guitarist and drummer both getting extended solos.

Harry waits another song before trying to talk again, paying attention to Zayn’s body language as he leans in a bit closer to speak into his ear. “They’re good.”

For his part, Zayn shifts so he’s turned towards Harry, their chests a whisper apart. “They are,” he agree. “They play a bit around town but I think they’re going to pick up traction in time for the summer festivals.”

It’s not easy to hear Zayn, as he seems to be somewhat soft-spoken anyway, but Harry leans in as close as he dares and watches Zayn’s lips form each word. “Which one is your friend?”

“Niall’s my flatmate- he’s the guitarist.”

“Shit, he’s good,” Harry says, his praise honest. Two of his notes reflect the same notion, reading along the line of ‘blonde guitarist good and charismatic’. Harry isn’t much of a musician himself, but he can tell Niall is good and, more importantly, completely into what he’s doing.

“Are you just saying that to get into my pants?” Zayn teases. Harry could watch Zayn’s mouth repeat those words over and over again for days.

“Didn’t know what was an option,” Harry says before he can stop himself, closing his eyes in a grimace until he hears Zayn laugh again.

“You’re a bit strange, mate.”

“You seem to be okay with it, though,” Harry says, his words ticking up at the end almost in a question.

Zayn shrugs. “Can get a bit boring with the usual types. At least I don’t know what you’re going to say next.”

“I make amazing Szechuan chicken.”

Zayn laughs again, immediately this time. “Yeah, good example of random.”

Harry pulls back just a bit, enough to turn and face the stage again as if he isn’t completely aware of Zayn’s proximity. Harry thinks he can even smell his cologne, though there’s too many people around for him to be confident that it isn’t someone else’s.

“Might have to prove it sometime,” Zayn says, pushing closer to Harry and tilting his chin up to speak the words directly in Harry’s ear.

Harry almost doesn’t believe it, though he smiles and nods. “Absolutely.”

They stay like that for the rest of the band’s set, close enough that their arms brush occasionally but not any closer than that. They don’t talk again, but catch each other’s eyes every so often, smiling and flushing before looking away.

His instant attraction to Zayn isn’t something new; Harry often finds himself fixated on someone he meets in a casual setting. He catalogues their traits and quirks, usually using the gathered info for a great shag. Sometimes there’s a repeat performance, but often enough the attraction fades. Most of the friends he’s made since leaving school were gathered that way, one-offs that didn’t turn into more. It’s not something he typically anticipates, can’t see himself ever being immune to the sharpness of Zayn’s cheekbones, but he knows himself too well to think it won’t happen.

He enjoys the building tension. He focuses on the hedonism of it, the way every glance and touch heightens the anticipation. He has little doubt where this is headed, isn’t dumb enough to think Zayn is interested in more awkward conversations. He currently has Zayn’s attention because his awkward, clumsy come-ons came from a guy who looks like Harry does. He knows what people see in him, a fling they can use to blow off steam. It’s exactly the image he’s put forward for years.

So he relaxes, letting any stress from the day bleed out of him as he mentally catalogues the end of Niall’s set for the piece he’s still planning on writing. He shifts so he’s touching Zayn with more purpose now, slightly behind so Zayn’s left shoulder is pressing back into Harry’s right arm. He puts a hand on Zayn’s lower back over his leather jacket, leaning in as the house DJ starts up on the opposite side of the room.

“Are you going to go congratulate him?” he asks, keeping his voice low though he almost feels like he won’t be heard without shouting.

“He’ll be busy with other admirers,” Zayn says, shaking his head. “I think I’ll stay here with you.”

“Do you want to dance? Want a drink?”

“I’m not much of a dancer,” Zayn admits. “But I’ll have a beer with you. First one’s on me.”

Harry grins. “I’m for the toilet, be right back.”

“Okay, I’ll grab the drinks.”

“Don’t forget about me. Only be a sec.”

Zayn laughs, rolling his eyes and pushing at Harry’s chest, forcing him back a step. “Go, you strange lad. I’ll manage to remember you for the five minutes you’ll be gone.”

“I’m the one with the curls.”

Zayn just shakes his head and turns away, heading towards the large, crowded bar and squeezing through. Harry watches him for all of two seconds before his bladder reminds him that he really needs to go, and he heads to the toilets for a wee.

The queue for the women’s is miles long but he’s in and out of the men’s in record time, stepping back out onto the floor. He looks around for Louis and Liam, feeling a bit bad about ditching their lads night, but doesn’t see either of them right away. They may be out smoking. He finds Zayn quickly enough, though, the necks of two beers in one hand while he carefully holds two shot glasses in the other.

“Bonus,” he says when Harry’s close enough, indicating his left hand. “Guy at the bar used all the cliché lines that you didn’t. Offered to buy me a shot. Don’t think he realized he’d be buying you one as well.”

Harry laughs, taking them from Zayn’s hand and following him to the booth he’d claimed with Louis and Liam earlier. Their drinks are still on the table and Louis’ denim jacket is on one bench. Harry and Zayn slide into the same side, arms pressing together as Zayn sets down the beers on small bar napkins. Harry hands him one of the shots, the slightly green liquid of the one he keeps for himself splashing over the side just a bit as he settles.

“Do I want to know what’s in this?” he asks, though he’s fairly certain he caught a whiff of vodka.

“You’ve never had a kamikaze?” Zayn asks, a bit of a challenge in his eyes.

Never one to back down, Harry raises his glass before lowering it quickly. “What are we toasting to?”

“To dumb blokes at the bar?” Zayn suggests.

“You’re asking me to toast to another man who fell victim to your pretty looks?” Harry asks.

Zayn’s clearly flushed, even in the low light. Harry can see where the dip of his neck is pinking up, the colour hidden in his cheeks. Harry wonders how warm his flush feels.

“You’re the one I’m drinking it with,” Zayn points out, licking at his bottom lip in what Harry is coming to realize is a tic. Harry raises his glass again, unwilling to argue with that fact lest it changes, tapping his shot to Zayn’s before downing it.

“That’s awful,” Harry says, coughing once into his fist. The vodka burns as usual, but the lime juice doesn’t do much to cut it. “Think the bartender is a little heavy-handed.”

“Amateur,” Louis says as he approaches with Liam, more shots in their hands.

“Oh, no,” Harry says, watching them both slip into the booth gracefully though they’re carrying eight shots between the two of them. There’s a mix of colors and Harry wonders how long it took the bartender to make them all. The two of them are probably the most annoying customers of the night so far, especially if they tried to pay instead of opening a tab. Louis is usually too lazy to count out Muggle currency, though he knows it just fine, and Liam’s tried to give away handfuls of Knuts and Sickles too many times before.

“We’re just going to get to know Zayn here a little bit,” Louis assures, sliding the glasses all to the middle of the table. Harry watches Liam pass Louis a bottle of beer, wondering how he’d managed to carry it all without spilling.

“What do you want to know?” Zayn says, his posture a bit more strained than it had been just a moment before.

“We don’t- you can go, if you want,” Harry says. “We’re not going to interrogate you.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Louis says, waving away Harry’s concern. “Zayn knows he’s absolutely free to leave. He can even take you with him. But he could also stay for a little bit and enjoy some free booze.”

Zayn levels him a look for a moment before turning to Harry with a small smile. “I’m good. I’ll let you know if I’m not.”

Harry shrugs and slumps back in his seat, letting Louis explain the rules of their drinking game.

 

 

One round, sixty minutes and a thousand questions later, Harry is definitely the drunkest at the table. Louis’ rules had been a scam, he thinks, as he hasn’t seen Zayn drink even one shot. There had been something about ‘yes’ answers being a sip of beer and ‘no’ answers being a shot, but Zayn hasn’t said ‘no’ to anything. It’s not fair.

“Stop whining,” Louis says, clinking his beer with Zayn’s as they both take a sip.

Harry eyes the last shot on the table. He can’t do another one. And he’s mad that Zayn and Louis are already fast friends.

“Drink it, you big baby. No one is stealing Zayn from you.”

“Am I saying this outloud?” Harry says, but no one looks at him and he realizes he only thought it that time. He opens his mouth and repeats his words.

“Yes, and you’re quite embarrassing, so stop it,” Liam says, though he’s just as badly off as Harry is.

“Ugh, I need to die.”

“You’ll be fine,” Louis dismisses. “Just have some p-“ he cuts himself off, glancing at Zayn not-so-subtlety.

Harry understands instantly through the fog coating his brain. Pepper-Up Potion should do the trick. It works for colds, it would work for his drunkenness too.

“Bread,” Louis finishes after too-long of a silence. “Harry needs bread. To soak up the alcohol.”

“And a burrito, for my hangover tomorrow.”

Zayn looks between the two of them, brow furrowed in confusion though he’s grinning. Harry likes that Zayn is getting along with Louis and Liam. Maybe it could happen not at Harry’s expense, though, he thinks. That would be nice.

“I’ve got to piss,” Zayn says, waiting for Harry to scoot from the booth so he can slip out. “I’ll be right back. Should I get more drinks or is this game finally over?”

“It’s over,” Louis assures, his teeth pointy against his bottom lip as he grins up at Zayn. “You passed the test.”

“You haven’t, yet,” Zayn sasses back before turning and heading off.

As soon as Zayn is far enough away that Harry’s certain he won’t be able to hear them over the sound of the music, Harry leans forward to talk to Louis. “Can you get me some cure? For the head thing?” Harry asks, knowing Louis will understand what he’s talking about even if he’s already forgotten what it is, exactly, that was said. Louis’ always good at helping him with his medical and health spells.

“Not really,” Louis says, apologetically. He offers, “I can maybe take some of your drunkenness away though. Magic up something to take the symptoms away.”

Harry watches as Louis glances around, removing his wand from its spot in his sleeve. He waves it under the booth table as he mutters under his breath. Harry feels the tip of the wand hit his knee and he’s instantly more alert, though the fog isn’t completely shaken.

“Thanks. What was that?” he asks, but Zayn is already heading back to the table.

He has two glasses of water in his hands. “For you and Liam,” he explains, passing them over.

“Thank you,” Harry and Liam chorus at the same time, falling on their glasses like they’ve been in the desert for a month. Harry still has some aftertaste on his tongue from the last shot he’d knocked back, and the water tastes almost spicy from it. He downs half in one go before putting it down and grabbing a napkin for his mouth.

“I think that’s already helping,” he tells Zayn, who smiles and shrugs as if he’s too modest to take even an acknowledgment of thanks. Harry scoots just a little closer. Louis’ spell is really helping, the fog in his head now completely gone. Even his sinuses feel a bit clearer.

“I think I should be able to ask some questions,” Zayn says, grinning easily and posture completely relaxed.

“Shoot,” Liam says, looking a bit clearer in the eyes though Harry had missed seeing Louis perform his spell on Liam, too.

“Has anyone here ever been arrested?” They all shake their heads. “That’s good news,” Zayn says, shifting and pulling his leg up onto the bench. He tucks his foot under his other thigh, elbows on the table and leg pressed to Harry’s so closely, they’re almost in each other’s laps. “What’s the worst thing about Harry?”

“Hey,” Harry pouts, not liking this as much anymore.

“He clips his toenails and doesn’t throw them away,” Liam answers at the same time Louis says, “He sticks out his tongue when he eats.”

Zayn laughs, fingers against his smile as he looks at Harry, who is still frowning. “This is stupid. Great friends you guys are.”

“He has this creepy stare thing he does,” Louis continues. “He almost never breaks eye contact. Weirdly intimate. I think he forgot that Brits don’t do eye contact.”

“He always forgets to put away leftovers and then just eats them out of the container the next day. Like salmonella isn’t a real risk from that.”

“Stop,” Harry begs, laughing when Zayn doesn’t seem too concerned with any of the bullshit and lies Liam and Louis are spewing. Okay, well, Harry can admit to himself that they’re not exactly lies, just exaggerations more like. Still, he needs to get Zayn away before it can get any worse. Louis has a lifetime of knowledge on his side, and Liam has seen and heard of his fair share of embarrassing moments in Harry’s life.

“Dance with me?” he asks Zayn, loud enough to be heard over the music.

“Are you going to be upright? Only, you fell a lot today already while you were seemingly completely sober.” Harry grins and acknowledges the point, nodding. Zayn watches him for a second, shoulders tense again for a brief moment before relaxing. “Yeah, let’s dance a little. No making fun of me.” He directs the last bit to Louis and Liam across the table.

“Would I ever?” Louis asks grandly.

“Yes,” the other three all answer at the same time. Harry laughs as he stands and guides Zayn out to a packed area of the floor, enough people around that no one should be able to focus on either of them for long and their dancing can go unseen.

They’re both still holding their beers, taking sips casually before trying to make the other one laugh with increasingly silly moves. For all of Zayn’s adamant protests earlier, Harry had expected him to be completely horrible. Zayn moves a bit stiff and tense at first, but he’s soon getting past that and is relaxing.

Soon enough, their moves slip from silly into something with a little more grace, Harry’s free hand gentle on Zayn’s hip to keep them close together. Zayn has his own hand on the front of Harry’s shirt, fingers teasing one of his buttons in and out of its button hole. The earlier chemistry he’d felt is a gentler kind of need now. He’s talked with Zayn now, has learned the names of his pets and seen the way his face changes when he talks about his family. The overwhelming desire for Zayn is sharpening its focus into a specific desire for Zayn’s mind and trust. Harry keeps Zayn’s body pressed against his while they dance because he knows they may not have anything past tonight, but he’s determined to make the most of it while he can.

Zayn’s arm is out to the side a bit, clutching at his beer and bringing it to his mouth for a sip every few beats. It must be warm now from his palm’s clutch on the glass, but Harry watches with piqued interest every time his lips close around the neck of the bottle. Zayn’s throat flutters with every swallow, his lashes a dark shadow against his cheekbones. They way Zayn looks up at Harry gives away the fact that he’s completely aware of how he’s affecting Harry.

It’s thrilling.

Their stomachs are pressed tight against each other, hips rocking together in an estimation of the beat. Harry’s half-chubbed up in his pants. Feeling overly warm, Harry pulls loose a hairtie from his wrist, lifting his arms and tying up his hair so it’s off of his neck. He instantly feels cooler from the simple action. Before he lets his arms fall again, pulling his hair to tighten the hold, he glances over to catch Zayn’s eyes trained on a specific point near Harry’s waist. Harry follows his gaze, noting where his shirt has rucked up from his reach, exposing a sliver of his hip bones.

When his hands fall to his sides again, Zayn’s eyes drag along the length of Harry’s torso slowly. Harry smirks, touching his fingers to the flat expanse of his sternum, watching as Zayn follows the motion of his hand and his tongue brushes the same spot on Zayn’s bottom lip.

Unwilling to hold back any further, Harry tugs him over to the booth, which is empty again. He’s gentle, guiding Zayn in a suggestion instead of forcing him to move, and Zayn goes eagerly. Harry sets his bottle on the table of the booth, Zayn following suit before Zayn is pushing Harry sideways into the booth with a hand on each shoulder. Zayn climbs in facing him, grinning.

“Can I kiss you?” Zayn asks, not waiting for more of a response than a nod from Harry before he’s leaning in.

Kissing Zayn is exactly how Harry expected it to be, a near-overwhelming culmination of the tension that had been ebbing and flowing between them all night.

What Harry hadn’t expected, however, was that his reaction would include several sparks emitting from the tip of his wand, searing a hole in his trousers near his hip and striking Zayn in the stomach.

“Ow, the hell?” Zayn says, scooting back.

Harry’s too distracted to appropriately panic. He claps a hand down over the hole, the sparks having ceased as soon as Zayn had pulled away. “Oh, well. I-“ he tries, but then Liam and Louis are suddenly there and he’s being tugged up from the booth, Zayn getting slightly squished before Harry’s being pushed away from him. Liam’s hands are big against his shoulder blades.

“Stop it, Liam, let me explain it to him,” Harry protests.

“Louis’ got Zayn. He’ll either bring him outside to talk or have someone from Muggle Relations come and wipe his memory.”

Harry digs his heels into the ground, refusing to move. “I don’t want his memory wiped.”

“So dramatic, Liam,” Louis’ voice calls out behind them. Harry looks over his shoulder, relaxing when he sees Zayn walking next to Louis. His expression is nervous but he’s clearly there of his own accord. Harry lets Liam continue pushing them outside, stopping only at coat check. Harry offers the slightly singed ticket to the guy manning the booth, shrugging into his jacket before they hit the cool October air outside.

“Zayn, I can explain,” he starts as soon as they’re halfway around the building, Louis already lighting up a cigarette and Zayn following suit, though Louis and Liam hang back a few feet to give them a semblance of privacy.

“You don’t have to,” Zayn says, blowing out a lungful of smoke towards the ground.

“No, I do. I just. How do I start?” Harry mutters, staring at his feet. “I guess, just go for it, yeah? Magic is real, and wizards exist.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I was raised Muggle- that’s non-magic, it sounds worse than it is until you realise- wait, what?” Harry says, Zayn’s words processing on a delay.

“I already know about magic.”

“But. How? I. Did the Ministry not wipe you?”

“Wipe? Ha,” Zayn snorts, a thin line of smoke coming out his nose. It’s absolutely ridiculous, if Harry’s honest, but that doesn’t stop it from being strangely hot at the same time. “I, uh. My mum’s a witch, actually. And my youngest sister. I’ve got a bit of it but not a lot. I spiked your water with a hangover cure.”

“I. What?”

Zayn laughs, scraping the butt of his cigarette out on the wall before flicking it into an ashtray near the club’s side entrance. “I’ve always known wizards exist, even met a fair few. Never got off with one at a bar, though.”

“I don’t know if we went far enough to call it getting off,” Harry muses, trying to process the information. Zayn laughs at that, shrugging. “I guess the mood is ruined a bit now, though.”

“Can always try again a different day,” Zayn suggests, “with all the cards on the table now.”

“I’d really, really like that,” Harry says. Zayn smiles, lighting another smoke but bringing this one to his lips slowly. Harry’s adrenaline is falling to normal levels and he runs the conversation through his head again. “You spiked my drink?” he lands on.

Zayn laughs again, the sound loud over the bustle of a Friday night in central Muggle London. “My bit of magic is good for healing spells. I’m in school to be a doctor, actually. I want to help people however I can. Whether it’s with Muggle technology or my little ‘boost’ as mum calls it.”

“You are the most fascinating person I have ever met,” Harry says with sincerity.

Zayn pulls a face at that, the same one he made when he’d handed over the waters that Harry now knows are responsible for his clear-headedness. Zayn has problem taking praise or credit, it seems, and Harry thinks he would be willing to put a lot of time and effort into helping him overcome that.

Louis and Liam slide forward after a moment of silence.

“Everything okay?” Louis asks, looking between them attentively.

“S’fine,” Zayn assures. “Me mum and sister are both witches, I’ve always known magic exists and Harry here is going to give me his telephone number so we can set up a date on a different day when all the revelations from tonight have fully sunk in.”

“I can make the Szechuan chicken,” Harry says at the same time Liam spies Zayn’s mobile, leaning forward with interest and saying, “I love telly-phones, can I touch it?”

Zayn smiles indulgently at Liam, passing it over and letting him study it. Liam holds it carefully, pulling out his own. It’s a bit outdated, just a basic flip phone with only Harry and Louis’ numbers programmed in, but Zayn’s isn’t honestly much more modern.

“It looks like mine. Why do you guys have weird ones?” Liam asks.

Harry rolls his eyes fondly. “Out of all the people I could have met tonight in all the bars in all of London, I find the one who carries a Nokia.”

Zayn pouts at that, eyes crinkled in amusement. “I could say the same!” he protests. “Out of all the people I could have met tonight in all the bars in all of London, I find the one who is secretly a wizard.”

“Fair point,” Harry concedes. He takes Zayn’s phone from Liam carefully. “It’s like a relic,” he says, unable to resist one last sassy remark. He programs in his number before handing it back.

“Just for that, you don’t get a goodnight kiss,” Zayn teases, pocketing his phone and grinning at the exaggerated pout Harry pulls.

“Just a little one?” Harry asks, grinning enough to dimple when Zayn looks back over.

“On the cheek, then,” Zayn allows, leaning forward and tapping his skin softly.

Harry privately thinks Zayn’s out of his mind if he thinks it’s a punishment, leaning in the rest of the way. He cups Zayn’s jaw with a gentle hand, placing a barely-there kiss to the sharp line of Zayn’s cheekbone before trailing his lips along Zayn’s cheek and pressing another brief kiss to the very corner of his mouth.

“This is kind of revolting,” Louis says.

Harry pulls away, smiling wide to match the one on Zayn’s face.

“Call me whenever you want. Tomorrow, tonight, five minutes from now.”

“I’m going to head back inside for a bit,” Zayn says. “Find Niall, tell him about you. Talk shit, the usual. He’s a wizard,” Zayn adds, seeing the serious expression that crosses Louis’ face. “I wouldn’t betray your secret to anyone, I promise.”

Mollified, Louis nods.

“I’ll call you,” Zayn says, sliding his hands into the back pockets of his trousers and looking up at Harry.

“Please do. Remember: I’m the one with the curls.”

Zayn laughs a little, heading away at that with one last glance at Harry before stepping back into the club.

 

 

**Two Months Later**

“I swear to god, Liam, if you don’t go to bed, there won’t be a Christmas morning for you to wake up to.”

Liam pouts at Louis, his leg jiggling nervously against the air mattress they’re sharing in Louis’ old room at his mum’s house. It’s since been converted into a crafts room for the kids, put all of the mess that’s usually in it is piled against the walls so two mattresses can be shoved inside next to each other. Harry looks over from the mattress he’s sharing with Zayn, who’s already fast asleep against his back, mouth pressed to Harry’s shoulder. He knows there’ll be a small spot of drool there in the morning but he doesn’t mind.

“Liam, just sleep. Santa won’t come if you don’t sleep.”

“Santa isn’t real,” Zayn mumbles. So, not asleep then, Harry catalogues. Merely dozing.

“I beg your pardon,” Louis and Liam say at the exact same time. Harry rolls his eyes, used to it by now.

“Just give him the gift now, Li. None of us are gonna sleep anyway,” Harry reasons.

“I can’t, it isn’t Christmas yet.”

“It’s ten past midnight,” Harry counters.

It takes Liam a moment of thought but he finally decides, climbing off of the mattress and pushing off of the floor to stand upright. “Be right back,” he says before dashing from the room.

“What’s going on?” Zayn asks in a whisper, blinking fast, Harry judges from the way he can feel the slight tickle of the thick line of Zayn’s lashes.

“Liam’s got a prezzie for Lou he wants to give tonight.”

“S’nice,” Zayn says. “Can I sleep?”

“You might not be able to, they’re going to be loud,” Harry whispers back.

“I can hear you,” Louis says, a pout evident in his voice.

“But you have no idea what we’re talking about,” Harry counters.

Before Louis can bicker with him any further, Liam comes back into the room. A small gift is in his hands, wrapped in green and silver mistletoe paper. _Nice call with the Slytherin colors_ , Harry thinks to himself. Louis sits up on the mattress, making grabby hands for the gift. Liam passes it over, and Harry is a bit disappointed there wasn’t a long proposal speech planned out. He likes when there’s speeches.

The gift box is about the size of a shoebox, and Harry watches Louis open it. Zayn’s peeking around Harry’s back, chin sharp on Harry’s shoulder. The paper comes off and the box opens and inside is…

“Another box?” Louis asks, picking it up and discarding the previous one. This box is a bit smaller, about the size of a head of lettuce.

“Open it,” Liam nods, so Louis does, slipping a finger under the paper- red and gold this time, not very subtle- and tearing it off cleanly. He opens the box and, sure enough, another one is inside.

“If this is a Nesting Doll thing, I’m not really getting it,” Zayn says, the words breathed gently into Harry’s ear.

Harry snorts, biting his lip and giving Louis a guilty look when Louis shoots him a frown.

“Liam, what are you doing?” Louis asks, discarding the open box and staring at the one in his hand, about the size now of a fist. Harry thinks to himself that Liam had done it perfectly, just enough boxes within boxes to get Louis’ attention but not enough to rile him up to the point of ruining the entire scheme.

“Open it,” Liam repeats, crawling back onto the mattress in front of Louis. It bobs a bit with their combined weight but it’ magically sealed and reinforced so it won’t pop.

Clearly assuming he’s on the butt end of a prank and in a strop about it, Louis waves his hand over the box and opens it without wand or incantation. His magic is at its strongest when he’s annoyed, and Harry muffles another snort.

“Don’t think I don’t hear you over there,” Louis says.

“Oh my god, Lou. Only you would be a brat during your own proposal,” Zayn says, causing Louis and Liam to both gape at him in shock.

“You told him?” Liam asks Harry, his voice hurt.

“Nobody told me. I’m just… it’s obvious,” Zayn says, but Louis is already opening the gift box to pull out the standard, velvet ring box.

“Li,” Louis breathes out, thumb poised to open it but then he pauses and looks up at Liam.

“I don’t have a lot of pretty words for you,” Liam says. “I expected to do this in front of your family tomorrow, and you know I hate making speeches. But I love you and I want to be with you. Will you marry me?”

Louis’ bottom lip is sticking out in a pout. He’s clearly trying not to cry as he finally opens the box and looks at the ring. “Oh, Liam. I- yes, of course I will.”

Harry sniffles a bit, Zayn smiling against his bare shoulder and Louis bear hugs Liam before pulling back to let Liam slip the ring onto his finger. “You were a little bit wrong, though,” Louis says, tracing the ring with his fingers. Liam hums to show he’s listening. “You did propose in front of my family. You and Harry- not you, Zayn, you called me a brat- are my family.”

Zayn giggles, reaching over Harry’s side to swat at Louis ineffectively. Harry grabs for his hand, pushing the oversized sleeves of his jumper back to his wrist so he can link their fingers together and press a kiss to Zayn’s palm.

“Let’s go kip on the couch and give them some privacy,” Zayn suggests. Harry nods his agreement and they both rise from their mattress, Harry’s back destined to be sore in the morning no matter where he sleeps tonight.

They gather their blankets and Harry’s t-shirt, both of them kissing Liam and Louis each on the cheek and whispering congratulations. As soon as they’re out of the room, they hear the lock slide closed by magic and then nothing else, knowing _Muffliato_ was cast to keep the room soundproof.

They make their way quietly to the living room, Harry muttering a spell to enlarge the sofa and then another one to make it softer on his side. Zayn pouts in understanding, hand kneading Harry’s lower back. “You alright, babe?”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry assures him.

Settling in their bed for the night, Zayn curls up against Harry’s side. “Do Liam and Louis actually believe in Father Christmas?”

Harry sighs. “He’s on our cards.”

“What?”

“Our Chocolate Frog cards. Santa is one of them.”

“A man who supposedly gives out gifts to every children in the entire world that believes is on one of your playing cards?”

“To be fair,” Harry says, speaking slowly around a yawn. “The idea of all of that being accomplished in one night can only be explained by magic.”

“Does Rudolph exist, too?” Zayn laughs.

Harry stays silent.

“Haz- don’t tell me-“

“It was a _Verdimillious Duo_ gone wrong!” Harry says, his voice coming out louder than he means it to.

Now it’s Zayn’s turn to be silent.

“The Santa Claus on our cards is said to have been a wizard in the fourth century. He saw that magic children were being shunned by Muggles who didn’t understand magic, and so were frightened of it. He set about gathering supplies and volunteers to make toys for all the little witches and wizards who needed cheering up.”

Zayn hums to show he’s listening, though Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he had fallen asleep. He’s a bit of a rambler and slow-speaker, and this story is long.

He takes a breath and continues. “When he finally had all of the toys, he needed some way to carry them. So he found a few reindeer that could help, big sturdy bucks, and cast a spell on the biggest one to help him lead the way and avoid any who would oppose him. He didn’t want to cause any stress to the Muggles, but wanted to get his gifts to the children. The spell went a bit wrong, as Santa was very tired from all the toy building, and then Rudolph had a red nose that helped light the way but also served as a defense if someone with ill intentions approached.”

“Wizards are weird,” Zayn says, kissing Harry’s shoulder and tucking his cold nose into Harry’s neck.

Zayn’s asleep within seconds, Harry’s explanation having served as a bedtime story of sorts. Harry sighs and stretches a bit, trying to find a good position for sleeping.

He’s seconds away from slumber, so deep in a doze that he won’t easily pull out from it, when he hears jingle bells and the sound of something sliding to a stop on the roof.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! [Here's the post on Tumblr](http://godonlyknowszarryficexchange.tumblr.com/post/150233657085/wonderstruck-anonymous-one-direction-band).
> 
> Besides the headache remedy incantation, all spells mentioned are found in JK Rowling's books or elsewhere in the Official Universe created with her copyright characters. Copyright material also includes the owl treats and Floo Powder, among others.


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